Play Things
by NoTimeToStop
Summary: After Lydia receives a porcelain doll as a gift, weird and increasingly dangerous things begin happening, and Lydia starts behaving strangely. Will Lydia's friends be able to figure out what's wrong and help her? Or will her friends be the ones in need of saving? {Human AU}
1. Prologue

_**Welcome to my first attempt at the horror genre! When Lydia is given a porcelain doll, strange things begin happening and her friends start to notice a change in Lydia's behavior. Rated Teen for later violence, horror, [major] character death, and some coarse language. Contains Stydia (because they're my OTP, #endgame). Human AU.  
I hope you enjoy. Don't forget to leave a review. Constructive criticism welcome.**_

* * *

 **Play Things**

 **Prologue**

Jeff Martin was away for work. Since he and his wife had split a few years previous, he volunteered for more business trips across the US and abroad. His company was growing and expanding, and he was proud to be a front-runner for the business. He didn't have a home or a family waiting for him to return, no pets or houseplants. He was an autonomous agent in the universe, free to come and go as he pleased. As regarded the ex-Mrs. Martin, he had no regrets. He didn't mind coming home to an empty apartment, so long as he remained liberated from her – her constant nagging, her domineering presence, her insistence he never did anything right. If he wanted to hit a bar and grab a drink (or several) after a long day of work, and if he wanted to bring an attractive woman back to his hotel room for a bit of fun, he could do so. He was not required to answer to anybody.

Jeff Martin's divorce had, however, left him with one regret: he rarely saw his daughter. His beautiful, intelligent, sweet girl. Both he and Natalie had agreed it was in her best interests for her to remain with her mother, but in doing so a rift had widened between daughter and father. She resented him. He knew she did - and he didn't blame her. He should have been there for her. Now every time he saw her, she looked more like a woman – a headstrong woman who could make her own choices – and less like the little girl who used to twirl around the living room, pretending she was a fairy princess, begging "Daddy, come dance with me!"

Across the street from Martin's five-star hotel was a line of shops. Shops selling sandwiches and soups, fancy coffees and delicate pastries, books and magazines, souvenirs and hand-crafted clothing, knickknacks and curiosities. One of the shops was an old stone building. The double wooden doors were painted a bright fuchsia. The trim around the six-foot windows and the store's sign was bubblegum pink. White letters and black shading welcomed patrons to "Madame Tamarra's Treasures." Gold script on the windows advertised: "Gifts. Keepsakes. Trifles. Antiques. Rarities. Oddities." The storefront was an eye-catching spectacle that bordered on gaudy. Inside the windows, Martin could see displays of antique wooden furniture, stained bookshelves lined with aged books and vintage vinyl, classic typewriters and old-fashioned accessories. He had walked past the store everyday on his way to meetings, stood in front of it to catch a cab, but had not entered. That day, with his daughter vividly on his mind, he decided to go in.

Martin had promised to take his daughter to dinner when he returned to Beacon Hills. He knew he wasn't a good father – hadn't been a good one for nearly a decade; he knew one dinner wouldn't mend the gap between them, wouldn't erase the pain of a father who had been more absent than he was ever present, but he hoped a gift, a small token of his affection, would make an ample peace offering.

A bell tinkled overhead as Martin pushed open the front door. The air in the store was thick with the scent of dust and sweetly burning incense, musty and perfumed and overpowering. Behind the counter, a middle-aged woman wearing bi-focals, numerous clunky beads hanging around her neck, brandished a fly-swatter. Her large owl eyes blinked rapidly in surprise as she focused on the newcomer. Martin glanced around the store: he was the only customer. The woman, he assumed, was Tamarra. She smiled. "Can I help you?"

Martin inspected the assortment of items piled near the door, the hats and scarves hanging near the counter. He wasn't sure what his daughter would like. If he was honest, he didn't know her very well. He figured his best bet was to buy something pretty – and expensive. "I'm looking for a gift for my daughter."

 _Thwack!_ The fly-swatter smacked against the glass counter, shaking the display items. The cashier flicked away a dead horsefly and grinned. "Let me show you some of my wares." Martin followed the woman deeper into the store, where the shelves were closer together and more claustrophobic. "I collect unique items. You won't find anything here in bigger chain stores like Target or Walmart." She spat in disgust. "Here we are." The woman gestured at a variety of toys. The silver bangles on her wrist clinked together. There were plush dogs with red ribbons, hand-sewn rabbits with satin coats and button eyes, and teddy bears made with real animal fur; wooden cars and model trains, Jacks in their boxes decorated with splashes of color, dots, and stripes; jade cats and glass figurines, crystal ballerinas spinning perfect pirouettes; tin soldiers and dolls made of paper and yarn.

"My daughter's a teenager," Martin explained. "She's too old for toys."

The woman jabbed her index finger in his direction, and then tapped it against her temple. "Inside, every young woman is still a little girl at heart. I bet she likes pretty things. What is your daughter's name?"

"Lydia."

"A beautiful name for a beautiful girl, I bet."

"Yes."

"And beautiful girls must have beautiful things. Something unique for a one-of-a-kind girl." She started down the aisle. "A nice jewelry box, perhaps, or a lovely Victorian brooch. I have a fine selection of silver lockets."

"Yes, that might be-" Martin paused at the end of an aisle. Sitting primly in a child-sized wooden chair, with a velvet cushion, was a porcelain doll. She had lovely, delicate features: blonde ringlets curled to perfection, tiny hand-painted freckles on smooth china, and cherry lips crafted in a pretty dimpled pout. She stared from under long eyelashes with cobalt blue eyes that seemed to sparkle. She wore a magnificent blue gown, trimmed with white lace and ribbons, that perfectly matched her eyes and the bow in her hair.

Martin leaned forward and met the doll's gaze. Every detail was flawless. He hadn't realized inanimate objects could be so lovely and charming. "Pick me," her eyes whispered demurely. Lydia was a bit old for dolls, but she had possessed a wonderful collection of them when she was a child. Her grandmother, his own dear mother, had given Lydia her first doll on her fifth birthday. He had built Lydia a special shelf in her room for her dolls – a shelf he now believed held books and trophies. He remembered how fondly Lydia had loved those dolls, how gently she had treated them, how kindly she had spoken to them, as if they were real, living friends. He wondered what had happened to them.

If this doll didn't help mend the rift between them, didn't prove to Lydia that Martin still cared about and cherished his little girl, nothing would.

"Ah, I see you have met Amelie. She's a very special girl."

"She's absolutely perfect. I'll take her." The woman carefully lifted the doll from her perch and cradled her in her left arm. She traced her finger along the doll's face, mumbling under her breath. She carried the doll to the counter, laying her down gently. Martin withdrew his wallet from his back-pocket. "Shall I gift wrap her for you?"

Martin nodded. "That would be great. Thank you." He extracted an American Express card and handed it to the woman. She shook her head, and pulled a purple gift box from under the counter. "Cash only."

Martin thumbed the green bills inside his wallet, counting quietly to himself. He had more than enough. "Amelie has been searching for a good home for a very long time. She has been waiting for just the right person. Your daughter must be the one – a special girl." The woman settled Amelie into the box, tucking her in with crisp white tissue paper. She replaced the lid, and expertly tied the package with a white satin ribbon to hold it in place. Martin smiled and accepted the box and his receipt. He had found it: the perfect gift for his little girl.

Above him, the door bells chimed once again. In the air was a faint singsong whisper, like the lingering scent of perfume: "Lydia. Lydia. Lydia."


	2. Chapter One: Gift

**Chapter One: Gift**

"Hello?" Lydia Martin asked, holding her cellphone to her ear with her shoulder, as she opened a container of blush.

"Hey Lyds," her best friend, Allison, greeted cheerily. "A bunch of us are going bowling tonight. I was hoping you'd come along. I know you're an epic bowler." Normally Lydia would welcome any opportunity to hang out with her friends, and she _was_ a fantastic bowler, but she hated the sport: the sweaty, previously worn shoes; the slick balls rampant with germs and carriers of the common cold; the terrible bowlers who couldn't aim to save their lives and sent their balls careening into her alley; the obnoxious and boisterous hordes of sticky children kicking at the vending machines and running unsupervised; the constant head-ache inducing crack of pins falling, added on top of all the other typical establishment noises; and the fact that she and Jackson Whittemore had bowled at least once a week while they were dating. She hated it all, especially how her memories were tainted by her ex-boyfriend and their painful break-up. If she ever cared to indulge in self-reflection, Lydia might discover she didn't hate bowling, she hated her ex, but she'd rather pretend the sport itself was to blame and avoid bowling alleys at all costs. "Stiles is going to be there," Allison added into the short pause, as though this piece of information would persuade Lydia. She didn't know why Allison would think such a thing, or why her heart gave an irritating hiccough at the sound of his name.

Luckily Lydia had a ready-made excuse for skipping out: "I can't. Dad and I are supposed to have dinner tonight."

"He's back from his business trip in Chicago?"

"Yeah. His flight came in last night. He promises he'll be in Beacon Hills longer this time, that we'll spend more time together." Allison could practically hear Lydia rolling her eyes. "He managed to get a reservation at the Benevolent Duck."

Allison gasped. "That fancy new restaurant in Sacramento? I've heard their food is amazing. It's all the rage on Yelp. Apparently the head chef worked for both the Kardashians and Oprah!"

"That's the one." Lydia stroked her makeup brush into the NARS Fervor blush, and swept the bristles along her cheekbone. She could tell Allison was impressed by her father's ability to get a table at such an exclusive restaurant, but Lydia couldn't have cared less. They could eat at Per Se in NYC or at a MacDonald's right here in Beacon Hills, and it wouldn't make any difference to her, not as long as her father was the one taking her. She didn't understand why he insisted on driving over an hour, on a drive that was sure to be painfully awkward, for an expensive meal they would eat in silence while staring blankly at each other.

"Have fun tonight."

"Thanks, Al. You too." Despite her professed hatred of bowling, Lydia felt a stab of regret as she hung up the phone, knowing her friends would be together having a good time without her.

She finished her make-up quickly and expertly, her mind detached while her hands performed their familiar rituals. She fluffed her hair, touched up her lip gloss, and double-checked her reflection in her vanity mirror. She touched a tissue to the corner of her lips, and sighed. Same old Lydia Martin.

She was slipping on a pair of cute high heels when someone knocked on her bedroom door. "Are you ready, honey?" her mother called.

"Just about." Lydia dabbed perfume on her wrist and neck. "He's probably going to be late again." Her father was always late, or else he cancelled their plans altogether. She may not have had any faith in her dad or his promises, but she could always rely on his inability to be punctual and his capacity for letting her down. She wondered if there was still time to call Allison and change her plans.

Lydia grabbed her purse and a shawl, and she was ready. She left her door open so her dog, Prada, could lie on her bed while she was gone. "Oh Lydia, you look lovely."

"Thanks, Mom."

They descended the stairs, and were both surprised by a knock at the front door. Natalie Martin glanced at a clock on the mantle. "Your father is actually five minutes _early!_ " She opened the door, exchanging polite pleasantries with Jeff. She was nice and cheerful, but Lydia could see how strained her smile was.

"Lydia, you look beautiful," Mr. Martin gushed, turning his attention away from his ex-wife. Lydia acknowledged the compliment with a nod. Of course she looked beautiful; she worked very hard at being beautiful. She didn't want her father to think she had dressed up specifically for him. She just wanted to look nice. She was a firm believer in the principle that appearances maketh man. Besides, she never knew when she might run into a sexy waiter or the love of her life.

Lydia joined her father in the doorway, subtly ushering him out to spare her parents any further exchange. Though she was their child, when it came to her parents, she often undertook the adult roles of mediator, counselor, and general keeper of the peace. She bid her mother good evening, following her father into the mild, calm night. Martin opened the passenger door of his black 2014 Lincoln MKS, idling anxiously on the curb, ready for a quick escape. She slid daintily into her seat and settled her purse onto her lap. They made small-talk on their way to Sacramento. When conversation was exhausted, they listened to music on the radio, and Lydia watched the miles passing outside her window.

Jeff Martin glanced sideways at his daughter sitting beside him. She was so cold and reserved; he remembered the days when she used to beg him to take her with him for a drive. Those days she wanted nothing more than to be in the same space as her father. He was probably to blame for her restraint and aloofness, the way she kept people at arm's length, refusing to let them too close to her heart. But she was also strong and independent, the kind of self-reliant and self-assured young woman any modern father hopes his daughter will be. He liked to think he was partially responsible for that too.

Their reservation was for six o'clock. The restaurant was packed. The atmosphere was ambient yet animated, with jazz music floating from invisible speakers and contemporary art hung on the walls. They were seated at a table along the farthest wall, with wine-colored table-clothes and matching linen napkins. The spot was private enough that Lydia could relax, knowing people weren't watching their interactions, yet public enough that she was confident her father wouldn't attempt to start any deep or emotional conversations. The kind of heartfelt talk they had both been actively avoiding since the divorce.

They ordered. Jeff was once again impressed by the confidence with which Lydia conducted herself. The lack of hesitancy in her voice, her steady eye contact, the indifferent passing of the menu and knowledge of its fancy cuisine terms. "You're so grown up, Liddy," he commented, using her childhood nickname. He reached across the table for her hand, but she withdrew it, folding her hands in her lap.

"That's what children do. They grow up."

"Right, of course they do. But I daresay no one ever completely loses their child self. Speaking of, I brought you a present. I was going to wait and give it to you after dinner, but what the hell? I'm too excited. I've been looking forward to this." Mr. Martin pulled a purple box from a bag Lydia hadn't noticed he carried. He placed the gift in front of her expectantly. His eyes were bright and eager. She looked from him to the box, and back again. Was he trying to buy her affection? She didn't want anything from him. Then again, she loved presents. She'd be foolish to refuse free gifts.

With deliberate slowness, Lydia untied the white satin ribbon. Despite the anticipation growing in her heart, she didn't want to exhibit too much excitement. She lifted the lid, set it aside, and unfolded the tissue paper. It was crisp and clean, crinkling deliciously with her touch. She could see white lace and blue silk. She removed more paper and uncovered a face. Lydia inhaled sharply. She stroked the porcelain cheek. It was cool and smooth.

"She's beautiful," Lydia confessed in reverential tones. Her breath caught, and her eyes brimmed with tears as she gazed into the blue irises. She could see her own image, tiny and bright, reflected back. She felt instantly as though she had found a long-lost friend. She gently fingered the lovely blue dress, the fine china hands, and the little white shoes. Everything prime and proper. Everything in its place.

"Her name is Amelie." Mr. Martin watched his daughter hopefully. He smiled cautiously. "Do you like her?"

"I'm too old for dolls." His smile dwindled. Lydia looked up at him. Her dimples creased and her ruby lips curved into a smile. Martin grinned in relief, relaxing back against his chair. "But I love her. She's perfect. Thank you." _Thank you for remembering,_ she wanted to say. She felt encouraged that her father remembered something so personal and special – the loveliness that had brought her joy, the dolls she had loved and cherished until her grandmother's untimely death, when she had thrown every single one away, consumed by her wretched and terrible grief, angered that her granny could leave her. She wanted to kiss him, thank him over and over, but she had given him quite enough for one night.

 _Thank you, Daddy! Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you. Oh, Daddy!_ The little child inside her screamed gleefully, desiring to fling herself into her father's arms and hug his neck, to scoop up her dolly and proudly show her off to the restaurant patrons. However, Lydia held herself at bay. She was no longer an impulsive child ruled by emotion. She knew how to guard her heart and keep herself from getting hurt.

Lydia skillfully re-wrapped the doll in her box and settled her to one side of the table. The waiter brought their food, and father and daughter conversed while they ate. Easily, pleasantly, laughing and reminiscing. They enjoyed their meal and company. Mr. Martin was proud of himself for offering the gift that had begun to close the rift between them, however minutely.

Mrs. Martin was cuddled up on the sofa watching Netflix when Lydia returned near eleven. "What have you got there?" Lydia put her house keys in her purse, and took the purple gift-box from under her left arm. She passed it to her mother, so she could examine it for herself.

"Dad brought me a present."

"Oh?" Natalie peeked inside. "Oh, Lydia!" A hundred contrary emotions were evident in the woman's voice. She stared at her daughter, trying to read how the gift had been received, whether Lydia liked it or not, whether it was appreciated or painful. She searched for any indication as to Lydia's thoughts, but her face was an expressionless mask Natalie could not interpret. She hated when Lydia put up walls, especially around her. She was her mother, for goodness sakes.

Natalie placed the box on the coffee-table and picked up the half empty glass of wine she had set there. "She's lovely." Lydia nodded. Natalie took a long drink of her Cabernet Sauvignon, and decided she needed more wine. Much, much more. She disappeared into the kitchen. Lydia could hear her clanking bottles in the refrigerator. The girl quickly kicked off her high heels, leaving them discarded by the front door.

Her mother always got this way after a visit from Lydia's father. She would become insecure and laugh too loud, drink too much wine, look at pictures and cry. She'd want her daughter to reassure her she was a good mother, the better parent. Lydia didn't feel up to it tonight. She started upstairs, but paused on the third step, her hand on the banister. She backtracked into the living room, and lifted Amelie out of her box, nestling her in her arms.

Lydia carried her up to her bedroom. Prada barked at her happily when she came in. She placed the doll on her vanity table and shimmied out of her dress. She dressed in clean cotton pajamas, pale pink and fresh smelling. She washed her face, brushed her teeth, and climbed into bed with her iPod and a book for English class. Prada curled up at her feet. She peeked over the pages at Amelie. Her golden locks and glass eyes caught the lamp light. She seemed to glow and radiate light. As a child, Lydia had believed her dolls were really angels and fairies, glorious and magical celestial beings, who had come to earth and hidden themselves inside her toys to soothe, comfort, and protect her.

Then her grandmother had died, and Lydia had stopped believing in goodness, magic, and light.

Mrs. Martin popped her head in to say goodnight. Her words slurred drunkenly. Natalie's knuckles tightened on the doorknob when she noticed the doll sitting near the mirror. Her younger brother Kevin had been terrified by dolls and mirrors, or – more accurately – the spirits he feared dwelt inside these objects, the unseen forces watching and waiting. Natalie looked into the unblinking eyes and a shiver ran down her spine. _Ridiculous. You drunk fool,_ she chided herself. _You're as bad as Kev. It's just a doll._ "Don't forget to turn your light off," she reminded Lydia. "You fell asleep reading the other night, and I had to turn it off before I left for work that morning."

"I won't. I'm going to bed now." Lydia emphatically picked a bookmark off the nightstand and marked her place.

"Alright. Good night, baby. I love you."

"I love you too, Mom." Mrs. Martin closed the bedroom door. Lydia flicked off the lamp and snuggled inside her soft sheets. She reclined into her downy pillow and sighed. She was exhausted. She closed her eyes, ready for sleep, but it did not come. She waited and waited. She shifted onto her back and then onto her right side. She counted sheep, listened to soothing instrumental music, recited the periodic table, and still sleep evaded her.

Lydia turned on the lamp and sat up. She stared at Amelie, sitting serenely on the vanity. Her hands rested causally in her lap, and she smiled sweetly at Lydia. _Amelie, Amelie, Amelie –_ a melodious song in Lydia's head, like the gentle notes of piano keys in a country mansion on a hill. Lydia pushed aside her covers and crawled to the end of the bed. She sat cross-legged, staring at Amelie, Amelie staring at her. Liberated from her box, the doll seemed bigger, seemed to fill up more space and command the air around her. Her ringlets were bouncy and light. Lydia was sure she'd had dolls every bit as lovely as this one, but Amelie was different somehow.

"Amelie." Lydia tried the name on her lips, tasted it on her tongue. "Amelie, Amelie, Amelie. You _are_ very pretty. Should we be friends?" She paused, as if waiting for an answer. The doll stared. Lydia laughed at herself. She crawled back to the head of her bed, and cocooned herself inside warm sheets. "I think I'll call you Millie," she said to the silence in the room, before turning off her lamp.


	3. Chapter Two: Study Group

**Chapter Two: Study Group**

After school, Lydia and Allison went to Lydia's place. Mrs. Martin wasn't home, and they had the entire house to themselves. They were greeted happily by Prada at the front door, then Allison followed Lydia up to her room. Lydia went straight for her closet. Allison dropped her backpack onto the floor and flopped down onto the bed. She laid on her back, and tilted her head and watched upside-down as the redhead removed her strappy heels and kicked them into the closet. "How was dinner with your dad last night?"

Lydia smiled and sighed in relief as her bare feet touched cool hardwood. Her toenails were painted a deep fuchsia to match her new lipstick. "It was really good actually."

Allison grinned. "Yeah? That's great, Lyds!"

Lydia plopped down next to her friend. She stretched out on her stomach, kicking her legs back and forth. She nodded to the doll sitting on her vanity table. "He even got me a present."

Allison turned her head an inch and admired the porcelain doll. "She's pretty, but aren't you a little old to play with dolls?"

Lydia's light laughter was like the clear tinkling of bells. She propped herself up on her elbow and gazed at Amelie. The doll smiled affectionately back at her. "I used to collect porcelain dolls as a child," she admitted. Her eyes moistened wistfully. She stared dreamily into a golden childhood memory Allison had had no part in. "Before my grandmother died. I know he was probably trying to buy my love, or something equally ridiculous, and I haven't forgiven him, but it means a lot that Dad remembered how special those dolls were to me."

"I had no idea..." Allison looked at the doll again, trying to see it as Lydia did. Personally she had always found the cold, solid, falsely flawless reproductions of idealized female faces uncanny and eerie. They had vaguely frightened her as a small girl, and even now dolls unnerved her in an undefinable, preternatural way. Ancient fears of stolen souls and dark spirits residing in inanimate objects, captured in photographs and mirrors, lurking on the other side of the veil. Unblinking eyes following every move. Watching. Waiting.

Allison inwardly shuddered and pushed away the thought. Her aversion to dolls wasn't the issue here. Allison hadn't known that Lydia had collected dolls as a child or that they held such profound meaning for her. There was so much she didn't know about her best friend; bits and pieces locked inside; distant spaces and places, reservoirs of memories, Allison could never reach, could never fit into, no matter how hard she tried. She could never belong to Lydia's past.

Lydia had become so skilled at putting on a facade, of being the perfect pretty-girl everyone expected her to be, had become so good at protecting herself by shutting others out and shutting her real self inside, she had lost the ability to be open and unguarded. She exposed her true self to no one, not even those she loved most. She did it without consciously thinking about it. A defense mechanism that had spiraled into a reflex. Lydia had forgotten how to let people in.

 _She must be really lonely,_ Allison thought sadly. Reclining lazily on the bed, red hair tousled after a long day, make-up faded and untouched, blue-grey eyes bright with private memories and secret longings, her usual mask removed in a brief moment of vulnerability, Lydia was beautiful. Painfully beautiful – raw and real, pure, innocent, unsullied. Poignant. She made a pretty picture, as always. But Allison thought this picture was much lovelier than the one Lydia showcased around school everyday: the popular girl pretending she had no insecurities.

Allison wished she had a camera - which subsequently reminded her: "I took some photos last night. Want to see them?"

"Sure." Lydia sat upright and folded her legs under her bum. The faraway look disappeared from her face. Allison rummaged in her pack and withdrew her iPad. She scooted close to Lydia, their hips touching, and scrolled through her photo gallery. Lydia pointed a manicured finger at a cute selfie of the two of them, taken only a few days prior at their favorite ice-cream shop. They were laughing genuine and toothy, holding cones of strawberry and mint chocolate chip, melted droplets dripping onto their fingers. "Can you send me this one?" Lydia wanted to print out a copy and frame it.

"Sure thing!" Allison smiled. It was one of her favorite photos of her and Lydia. Candid and natural, without any manufactured poses or ridiculous duck faces. Taken merely for their own enjoyment. Just a moment frozen in time of two young girls who were having fun together, who believed they would be best friends forever.

Allison quickly attached the photo to an email and sent it to Lydia. She rarely posted photos on Facebook – especially photos she had taken with her friends. In a narcissistic generation, fuelled by the need for the virtual approval of 'friends' you hardly spoke to in real-life, Allison was jealously protective of her pictures. Capturing some of life's best times with her favorite people on the planet, Allison clung to the special exclusiveness of those moments. She didn't want to share them wide-scale or publish them for exhibition on the Internet where anyone could see. She wanted to keep them close to her, and intimately share them only with whomever she chose. She wanted to cherish them privately and fondly. Her beautiful memories the world wasn't allowed to have.

Allison laughed as she swiped through photos of the previous night's bowling match, telling Lydia the story behind each one. Lydia was just as delighted as they looked through: shots of Allison, Scott, Stiles, and Isaac Lahey holding glossy balls – Stiles pretending his was too heavy to lift – contorting into awkward positions as they aimed and released, cheering when pins were knocked down and grimacing dramatically when balls ended up in the gutter; goofy images of Stiles sprawled in a lane or doing his victory dance, of Allison pounding on a vending machine that had eaten her quarters, of Isaac's wide-eyed surprise as Scott laughed so hard Coca-cola spurted from his nose.

"I wish you could have come," Allison said.

"Yeah. Me too." Lydia paused on a photo of Scott and Stiles, sitting side-by-side on a blue-and-white curved bench as they watched Isaac bowl. Scott's smile was toothy and boyish; Stiles' lips were pulled into a jovial smirk, like he knew a hilarious secret joke he wouldn't share. Lydia's eyes lingered on Stiles' face, the tanned arm he had nonchalantly draped over the seat, the curve of his shoulder and neck, the dimples in his freckled cheeks. Allison noticed her gaze.

"Stiles was asking about you," she divulged playfully, a note of teasing in her voice.

Lydia flipped her hair over her shoulder. "Did he?" she asked indifferently, but her reddening blush betrayed her.

Allison's grin widened. "He was _very_ sorry you couldn't make it last night."

"Of course he was. He knows I'm an incredible bowler."

Allison rolled her eyes, but chuckled. "Right. _That's_ why." She flipped to the next image and realized a second too late who was in it. She hurriedly pressed the screen to her abdomen and tried to change the subject. "Guess that's it."

Lydia had seen the photo. Her expression clouded. She took the device from Allison's hands, and her best friend didn't fight her. She held the iPad in her lap and examined the image closely. It was a group photo: there was Isaac and Allison, Scott and Stiles, and beside them two new arrivals. The handsome square-faced boy she had once loved smirked coolly – arrogantly, Lydia thought. His left arm encircled the shoulders of a short, hot blond with full, pouty blood-red lips and dark mascara eyes.

"I'm sorry, Lydia. I didn't know they were coming. They just showed up and wanted to join us."

Lydia's face transformed into a blank mask, but her fingers tightened around the screen. "Jackson's dating Erica now?" _That prick. That jerk. That bastard,_ she thought venomously. _That two-timing trampy bitch._ Cheating on her with that bottle-blond, and then casting her aside like last season's Dolce & Gabbanna, was wretched enough, but then parading his slutty new girlfriend around at their old favourite hang-outs _and_ encroaching on her friend territory was beyond putrid. It was vile. Disgusting. Contemptible. A lot of angry, vulgar words she was too much of a lady to say.

"I'm sorry," Allison repeated.

"Don't be sorry, Ally. It wasn't your fault." _No,_ it was hers for being such a fool. Lydia handed the iPad back to her friend. She stood abruptly, smoothed out her skirt, and checked her appearance in her vanity mirror. Her face was eerily emotionless. Hard, inflexible, and unreadable like the porcelain dolls she loved. "Come on. Let's go downstairs. The boys will be here soon."

"Alright." Allison sighed and turned off her iPad. She placed the device beside Amelie on the table. She grabbed the binder with her notes, and followed her friend down to the living room.

 _ **TEENWOLF**_

They had an important midterm test in American Lit that Friday which constituted a significant portion of their grade. While Lydia was bright and intelligent – a straight-A student since pre-K when she had learned her colors and numbers from one to ten before any of the other children – she was most proficient in mathematics and sciences. She was a practical thinker. Pragmatic. Logical. She preferred absolute, concrete, verifiable truths and theories over the imaginative abstractions and philosophical ramblings of manic depressive authors and semi-psychotic poets with flimsy grasps on reality. Sciences in their pure and basic beauty, rather than mosaics of words with limitless meanings that refused to settle on one categorization. Why couldn't characters ever just _say_ what they really meant? Why couldn't a ringed tree stump or a wooden chair or a loaf of stale bread just simply _be_ a mere stump, chair, or loaf?

Hence Lydia had called this study group, though she doubted any real studying would get done. She learned and thought best when she could bounce ideas off other people and discuss. Sometimes she needed to hear her own voice in order to comprehend her thoughts. She needed brains wired differently from her own. Allison was good at Language Arts and Social Sciences. She possessed a remarkably keen and sagacious insight into the human mind. She was perceptive and intuitive in a way Lydia was not – though Allison's fatal flaw was that she often struggled to properly articulate her ideas on paper. Stiles was a master of the sort of out-of-the-box thinking that would help him excel at English, if he could manage to settle down and concentrate or if he applied himself. And wherever Stiles was, Scott was sure to be found. Scott was a closet-Hemingway fan, but he claimed he could use the extra help. Lydia thought perhaps he just wanted the extra time with Allison.

The group met at Lydia's house – which was the biggest and had the best stocked fridge and comfiest chairs. They had just finished reviewing Emerson's use of metaphor and were discussing imagery in Poe. Tattered paperbacks, sheets of ink-drenched notes, glasses of Pepsi, and a 21-inch pizza box with only a single remaining slice of pepperoni cluttered the coffee-table. Lydia had confiscated the television remote half-an-hour earlier, because Stiles and Scott wouldn't pay attention. They wanted to figure out how many HD channels she received and watch "The Dark Knight Rises" and reruns of "Family Guy" on her big screen.

She should have known they wouldn't take this seriously. Shame on her. But if she complained about them later, Allison would be sure to ask her what she had expected and why she had invited them in the first place. Any assertions she made about 'group effort' or 'several heads being better than one' were certain to be met with an eye-roll, a knowing smile, and – God forbid – a teasing refrain of "You just like having Stiles around."

Lydia paced the plush carpet, answering the pre-prepared study questions Allison read out. The brunette was sitting on the floor in front of the sofa, resting back against the leather cushion, her legs stretched comfortably out in front of her. Scott read the jot-notes Lydia had made under each typed question over Allison's shoulder. He was acutely aware of her head beside his knees. His fingers mere inches from her full head of thick, soft hair. He could feel the warmth radiating from her body. How easy it would be to reach out and touch her! Scott tried to focus on Lydia's words and control his slowly rising temperature.

Stiles was sprawled sideways in an over-stuffed chair. His hand lazily stroked Prada's fur. The dog was curled up beside him, sleeping contently the deep sleep of beloved dogs. He stared at the ceiling in rapt boredom. The smooth white surface mirrored how he felt. He was sure any moment he would reach a new level of utter boredom, causing his brain to melt and leak out his ears. "Can't we take a break?" he whined.

Lydia stopped mid-stride and mid-sentence. Her cheeks were flushed with activity. She could feel the blood pulsing through her arteries to her brain, and it felt good. She glared sternly at Stiles. "We just took a break," she reprimanded, with all the authority and severity of a strict schoolmarm. "We need to foc-"

 _BANG! CRASH! BOOM! SHATTER!_

Upstairs a horrible clatter and commotion sounded. Then, silence. Lydia's eyes dilated fearfully, and her mouth formed a small, surprised O. The noise sounded like it had come from her bedroom. She ran from the living room and up the stairs. Her friends followed at her heels, Prada trailing behind and yapping loudly.

Everything seemed to be in order. Stiles wanted to check the closet and the rest of the upstairs for intruders, but Lydia stopped him. She bent down in front of her vanity table and picked a flat, rectangular object off the floor. She handed it to Allison. The iPad screen was shattered. Not just the usual spider-web cracks, but completely smashed, like the windshield of an automobile involved in a head-on collision. A dent the size of a baseball dominated the center, surrounded by a dizzying mosaic of fissures and loose glass shards that tumbled into her hands.

"My iPad!" Allison tried to turn on the device. It was dead, too damaged to even light up, though she wouldn't have been able to see anything on the screen. She sat down heavily on Lydia's bed. Tears welled in her eyes.

"I'm sorry, Ally." Lydia perched beside her friend and put an arm around her shoulders. "I don't know what happened. I'll buy you another one."

"It's not that." Allison wiped at her eyes. She wasn't crying over the destruction of her iPad; she would never cry over such materialistic concerns. "I didn't get a chance to back-up my photos from last night. They're gone. All of them." She could replace the iPad; she couldn't replace those stolen moments of time.

Scott took the device from Allison and looked it over. He whistled. "This looks pretty bad, but my cousin works with computers. Maybe he can salvage your files." He handed the iPad back. Allison smiled at him gratefully and thanked him. He blushed, and glanced around the room to hide it. "Where was your iPad sitting?"

"On the vanity table." Allison gestured to the now empty space beside Amelie.

Lydia's brow furrowed. "There's no way a fall from that height could have caused this much damage." And the noises she had heard didn't match up with the iPad simply hitting the floor. How could the flat device, laying untouched on a level surface have fallen anyway? "Maybe Prada jumped up and knocked it over," she pondered aloud.

Stiles scooped the little dog into his arms. "Couldn't have been Prada. She was cuddling with me. Weren't you girl?" The dog strained forward in his arms, barking and snarling furiously at the doll sitting primly on the vanity table. "Woah. Who's this?" Stiles leaned closer, and Prada growled and snapped, trying to bite the doll. Lydia took her dog from Stiles, so he could look at the doll. "Who's your new friend, Lyd?"

"That's Amelie. My dad gave her to me."

Scott looked at the doll and shuddered. "Ugh, I hate porcelain dolls. They're so creepy. Looking at me with their dead eyes."

"I don't know, Scott," Stiles teased. "I think she's kind of pretty." Scott looked into Amelie's baby-blues and shivered again. Stiles laughed and clapped him on the back.

Lydia was disturbed. There had to be a rational explanation. She hated not knowing what had caused the fall. Allison sighed. There was no way her parents would believe her when she told them her iPad was broken and that not only hadn't it been her fault, but she had no idea how it had happened.

The incident had officially annihilated any further studying. Allison was in a glum mood, and Lydia felt guilty and sorry. Because it had happened in her house, she somehow felt it was her fault. She didn't want her friends to leave yet, and she didn't want Allison to leave upset, so she decided they needed a little fun to cheer them up and forget about the bizarre occurrence. "How about we rent a movie and order more pizza?" she suggested. The boys responded to this idea with cheering, and Allison smiled at her sadly.

"Alright." She agreed. She put her now useless tablet into her bookbag and brought her pack, containing the rest of her belongings, to the living room where she could keep an eye on it. Lydia glanced one final time around her room, searching for anything out of place. Finding nothing unusual, she closed the door, just to be safe, and carried Prada downstairs. She was determined to forget anything had even happened.


	4. Chapter Three: Bad (Hair) Day

**Chapter Three: Bad [Hair] Day**

Friday morning dawned bright and beautiful. Lydia slept through her alarm. She was awoken by Prada, who could no longer contain the amount of urine built up in her small bladder, pawing at the closed bedroom door and whining. "Just a minute, baby, I'm coming," Lydia mumbled sleepily. She pulled the covers up around her shoulders and turned on her side. The paperback novel she had been reading before bed thudded to the floor, followed by the slow flutter of the study-note cue cards she had so meticulously written out by hand.

All night her sleep had been plagued by pre-test anxiety, nightmares in which she showed up to class late and found the test written in an archaic language she couldn't understand. She dreamed she failed – blood red F's marring her scholarly reports – and her teacher, hideous horns sprouting from his head, belittled and condemned her. Her classmates stared at her, haunting, penetrating lidless gazes that peered into her soul and judged her wanting. They had no eyes. Their faces were made of paper. The classroom combusted suddenly and was engulfed in flame, burning the paper people. She raced for the exit and found it barred; there was no escape. From the ashes rose figures of darkness and shadow, clawed and horned, demons with wide mouths ready to swallow her. An out-of-place silvery laugh singing her name like a taunt. Then a voice, a hand, brown hair and brown eyes, a knight in shining armor reaching into the darkness to save her.

Prada barked more persistently. She whined, turned a circle near the bed, and tinkled on Lydia's study notes. Lydia was wide-awake now. "Prada!" She scolded, groaning and tossing back her comfy covers. "Bad dog! You-" Her eyes chanced upon the clock. Was that the correct time?

Lydia swore and jumped out of bed. Her barefoot slipped in the foul, warm puddle. "Gross! Prada, bad dog!" She unceremoniously threw open her bedroom door and ushered the dog out with her foot.

"Lydia!" her mother called from the bottom of the stairs as a disgraced Prada skulked past her. "Aren't you ready for school yet?"

"No! I slept in!" She had meant to wake up early to continue studying. She'd have to cut her usual morning routine short, skip breakfast. She was irritated her mother hadn't thought to make sure she was up sooner.

"Get dressed and come down! I made pancakes."

Lydia ripped out half a box of Kleenex and threw the tissues over the smelly puddle seeping into the hardwood. She checked the condition of her study notes, hoping to salvage a few, but they were beyond saving. The corner of her book was also wet. Great. A perfect start to her day. "No pancakes. I need to shower."

"You don't have time."

"I'll be quick."

Natalie appeared in the bedroom door, her eyebrow arched. She gave Lydia a we-both-know-you're-lying look. Icebergs melted faster than Lydia showered. "Skip it this morning." She spotted the yellowing mess of tissues near the bed, curling her nose at the stench. "What happened?"

Lydia responded with a new slew of curses aimed at poor Prada, explaining with more vulgarity than necessary that the dog had answered nature's call all over her floor, all over her notes, and – Lydia hobbled on her right heel – she had stepped in urine and _absolutely_ needed a shower. "Hurry then," her mother said, stooping over the mess and, using an out-dated magazine, shoveled the mess into a trash bin. She'd need to spray the area to disinfect it. Could urine stain hardwood? She hoped not. These floors hadn't come cheap. "I'll clean up this mess. You have five minutes, Lydia. _Five minutes._ "

 _She sounds like a prison warden._ It was the shortest shower of Lydia's life, which meant she was forced to forgo exfoliating, conditioning, and moisturizing. She washed, shampooed, and stepped out into a cloud of steam that filled the entire bathroom. She was wrapping a towel around herself when her mother began pounding on the bathroom door. Yup, definitely a prison warden. "Lydia, you're going to be late!"

Lydia Martin was _never_ late.

She also never made an appearance unless she was primped, pretty, and positively perfect. Unfortunately, time that morning didn't allow for her to be both punctual _and_ beautified. She had a difficult decision to make; on any other day, she would have gladly sacrificed her perfect record of punctuality for the sake of beauty, but she couldn't afford to be late for this test. Her American Literature teacher, Mr. Phillips, was one of those strict, sadistic school teachers who does not accept lateness. At the beginning of class, he locked his classroom door. How many mornings had Stiles run into the school, huffing and out of breath, only to run smack into that locked door?

Lydia resigned her usual make-up routine in favour of a naked-faced, natural look – though she stuffed her mascara, lip gloss, blush, and smoky eye-shadow into her bag. Just in case she found an extra moment in between periods. It would be ridiculous to go to school completely unarmed.

She pulled on a cute mid-thigh-length floral dress with matching belt and a navy blue cardigan. She examined her reflection in the mirror and decided the outfit was suitable. But her hair! Lydia glanced at the clock. The minutes seemed to have sped up, slipping away like grains of sand through her fingers. She didn't have time to do her hair. If she didn't blow dry and style, it was sure to puff like a poodle, especially on such a humid day. But if she didn't leave now, she'd never make it before first bell, even pushing the speed limit. "That damn dog," she cursed, as if Prada's urine were the cause of this entire mess, and not the fact that Lydia had somehow managed to forget to set her alarm the previous night. "Why did I ever get a dog?" she grumbled, pulling a knitted cap over her damp locks. She glanced at the porcelain doll sitting primly at her elbow. Dolls never needed time to do their hair or make-up. They were perfect each and every day. "Don't ever get a dog, Amelie," she advised. "They're nothing but trouble."

Lydia grabbed her bag, shut her bedroom door, and descended the stairs in three-inch heels. The nail polish on one of her exposed toes was, she noticed maddeningly, chipped.

Lydia didn't give Prada her customary goodbye belly rub. The dog waited expectantly in the front hall, looking up with pleading puppy eyes, tail brushing slowly along the floor. Lydia clicked by indignantly, still too angry to speak to the dog. She slammed the front door unnecessarily, hoping Prada understood just how absolutely _unforgivable_ it was to tinkle on a person's study notes.

Lydia also slammed the door of her Prius for good measure. She shoved the key in the ignition and tried to start the car. The engine grinded and grinded but refused to turn over. The check engine light appeared on the dash. Hazard Orange. It had first appeared a couple days earlier, but Lydia had ignored it, believing it was just one of those inexpiable, purposeless things cars sometimes did and was nothing to worry about.

Lydia banged her fist against the steering wheel. The horn honked, alerting Natalie – also running late – who was locking up the front door. Lydia climbed out and slammed her door hard enough to rock the car. "It won't start!" Traitor.

"Hurry up. Get in." Natalie's Nissan Pathfinder chirped as she unlocked the doors. "I'll drive you to school. You'll have to ask someone to drive you home."

Miraculously, Lydia arrived just in the nick of time. First bell rang as she raced down the hallway; American Lit had never seemed so far away from her locker. Mr. Phillips had just begun to pass out test papers. He gave her the No-Nonsense Teacher-face. "How nice of you to join us, Miss Martin." Lydia nodded and averted her eyes from his, slinking sheepishly to her seat. Allison gave her a sympathetic look, and opened her mouth to ask a question but Phillips, anticipating the typical behaviour of the teenage female, snapped, "No talking! Once you receive your exam, you may begin. You have one hour." That was it. No advice. No room for questions. No good luck.

Lydia stared at her page in bewilderment. Matching, multiple choice, true or false, short answer, and essay questions. Had she even studied some of this material? Positively she had not read _The Fall of the House of Usher_ from the Poe readings. She thought the assignment had included only "The Tell-Tale Heart" and "The Raven."

She panicked. She was going to flunk. Her nightmare was coming true. She was going to fail American Lit, and no Ivy League university would seriously consider her college application. Her perfect record down the toilet. One F could ruin everything. This test was going to screw everything up.

Lydia tried to calm herself and focus, but her mind was completely blank. She could not recall a single thing she had studied. Annoyingly, scenes from the movie she had watched last night with her friends, the feeling of Stiles' hand as it brushed hers in the popcorn bowl, arose in extra vivid detail. Her heart pounded so loudly in her chest, she could hear, could feel, it's crazy _BamBamBam_ in her ears. She glanced around. Could anyone else hear it?

To her left someone coughed. Pages turned, rustled. Pencils scratch, scratch, scratched. An eraser squeak as someone furiously erased an incorrect answer. What were they erasing? She doubted her instincts. Did she have the same answer wrong as well? Would Mr. Phillips include trick questions?

Lydia took a guess, wrote in some answers. She was writing in blue pen because she could not find a pencil. The ink bled, running down the pristine white sheet. A tiny wet splotch appeared on her paper, followed by another and another. The words she had written blurred. Her handwriting was slanted and messy. Was the typeface askew, or was it just her vision? Lydia realized she was crying.

She looked up. Across the aisle, Stiles was staring at her with gentle, concerned eyes. His brow furrowed in a way reminiscent of his father's. They had the same noble forehead – the sheriff and his son. "Are you okay?" His lips mouthed soundlessly.

Lydia meant to nod, but instead a choked sob escaped. Mr. Phillips looked up sternly over the edge of his 75th anniversary edition of _Of Mice and Men_. Tears were running down the girl's cheeks, and her eyes were distressed. Mr. Phillips had seen a lot in his 25 years as a teacher – the perfectionists, the slackers, the overachievers, the cheaters, the average Joes, the potheads. He had seen plenty of students cry – male and female – over breakups, hormonal drama, friend betrayals, and failures. He had even made a few students cry himself. In the early optimistic years of his career, he had met these challenges and tears with encouragement and sympathy. Now, frustrated by the seeming endless cycle of the same problems over and over again, he told them to suck it up. Life did not begin and end with high school. A person's teenage years hardly amounted to anything more than an inconsequential blip on the map of their existence.

He had, however, never seen Lydia Martin cry. He had not thought she had the capacity for such emotional display. The leader, the queen bee, the tiny Amazon in high heels, the Titan haired goddess of Beacon Hills High School. She was, in his eyes, like the marble statues he had seen in the Louvre in Paris. Haughty and impregnable, too high above her fellow man to show emotion. He was, therefore, dually shocked and alarmed.

Lydia read the surprise in his face, in the way he slowly set his book on the desk, its spine cracked open like two wings. He was beginning to rise, his mouth shaping the first syllable of her name. Lydia grabbed her stuff, scooping the exam papers off her desk with one hand. Her pen clattered to the floor, and she left it there. She tossed the crumpled pages onto the teacher's desk and dashed from the room. Bathroom, she needed a bathroom. That germy, disgusting sanctuary that provided privacy and emotional reprieve. _Click-clack, click-clack, click-clack_ , her heels tapped as she rushed down the hall. She teetered uncertainly on her usually steady, poised feet. That was all she needed – to wipe out flat on her face and break one of her stiletto heels – or worse, her nose.

Lydia made it safely to the bathroom – the first thing that had gone right all morning – and locked herself in a stall. She indulged in chest-heaving sobs, crying profusely and without any tangible reason, but briefly. She poured everything into those tears, blowing bits of snot into cheap single ply toilet paper, but when they stopped, she couldn't claim to feel better. The kind of cathartic release people claimed crying produced had not come, but she certainly didn't feel worse. _Get yourself together_ , Lydia reprimanded herself, dabbing at her eyes with a clean bunch of toilet paper. This was no way for her to behave.

Lydia opened the stall door and stood before the mirror. She could have started crying all over again when she caught sight of her reflection, and, as she had predicted, saw the way her hair, usually cascading in lovely waves, puffed and frizzed from under her hat. She removed the hat, but that was worse. The hair beneath was flat and damp, looking limp and greasy, and then ending in these crazy tufts.

She did the only thing she could do: she pulled her hair into a messy bun, securing it with an elastic band and then promptly hid everything under her hat again. It probably would have looked better – less bumpy – under a baseball cap but Lydia Martin did _not_ do baseball caps. Or baseball. Ever. She carefully applied what meagre makeup she had brought; the end result was presentable – certainly not up to her usual standards, but far from hideous. Now all she had to do was forget that she had just flunked a major exam and keep her head held high. Don't let the haters get you down. And in her case, there was no shortage of "haters."

As she exited the bathroom, Allison rounded the corner. "I wanted to come sooner, but Mr. Phillips made me finish my exam first."

"It's alright, Ally. I'm fine. It's fine."

Allison looked Lydia over. She did _look_ fine, but Alison knew how misleading appearances could be, how misleading Lydia's appearance in particular could be. Her friend's face was hard, unreadable. "If you're sure...?"

"Yes, come on." Lydia spun on her heel, heading towards the lockers. She made a motion as if to toss her hair, but since it was hidden beneath the hat, her head just kind of bobbed to the side. Her hips instead made up the sashay in movement usually accompanied by her loose hair.

The bell rang, surprising Lydia. How had the entire hour passed so quickly? Doors banged open and students poured into the hallways; classrooms empty and refilled, and during the transition paper planes and wads were shot through the air, spit was exchanged, texts sent and Friday night plans made. Allison and Lydia had Study Hall next – which usually just meant students spent an hour in the library texting or scrolling through cat videos on Facebook. The unfair irony – or was it just plain cruelty – of which was not lost on Lydia. Why couldn't Study Hall be her _first_ Friday morning period?

"Can I get a drive home after school?" Lydia asked, as she and Allison grabbed seats around their usual square table near the fiction section. They sat side-by-side, waiting for their two friends who normally occupied the chairs across from them.

The sympathetic look that had dominated Allison's face morphed into an apologetic one. "I can't. Dad's picking me up after school. We're spending the weekend in Seattle at my aunt's. I thought I told you." She had, but Lydia had forgotten.

"Right. Of course."

"What happened to your Prius?"

"It wouldn't start this morning, but no big deal, I'm sure someone will drive me home. In fact, here comes my ride now," she asserted confidently.

Stiles drew out the chair across from her. His brown eyes scanned her intently. Scott collapsed into the chair beside him, and sighed heavily. "I failed. I totally bombed that midterm." Allison shot him a meaningful look, and when that didn't work, kicked him under the table. "Ow!"

"Stiles, do you have lacrosse practice after school?" Lydia asked, attempting to ease into her request. She knew for a fact that the team only practised on Friday afternoons before Saturday home-games. She also knew they did not have a game this weekend, as she memorized the schedule each season. (A habit she had picked up dating co-captain Jackson Jerk-more, but which still proved useful for keeping up with her other friends.)

"Not today." Stiles smiled and clapped Scott on the back. "My bro and I are going camping for the weekend."

Lydia wrinkled her nose. "Camping? Like you're renting a cabin for the weekend?" The idea might appeal to Lydia – the four of them hanging out and drinking in the woods – if she hadn't seen _way_ too many horror movies that started the same way.

Scott and Stiles laughed as if she had cracked a joke. "No way. Tenting all the way."

"Just us, a couple sleeping bags, and my Jeep."

"Ew." Lydia could never understand why men found sleeping on the ground fun. It must be a primitive instinct from their cavemen days that had yet to fully evolve from their brains. Just another example of why men were essentially primeval. "Where are you camping?"

"Over in Breton County."

"Isn't that like three hours from here?" Allison asked.

"Three and a half," Scott corrected. "We're leaving right from the school, so we'll be able to make it to the site and set up before dark. We packed Stiles' Jeep up this morning." Allison glanced at Lydia.

Stiles intercepted the message passed between friends. "Why? Is something wrong?"

"No," Lydia replied quickly, warning Allison with her eyes not to say otherwise. "I just think that's a long way to travel so you can sleep on the ground." While Stiles and Scott launched into a lecture on the glories of good, ole fashioned camping, Lydia began compiling a list of other possible rides in her head. She must have other friends who would take her home. Right?

Unfortunately, by final period, Lydia had not found anyone to drive her home. Isaac Lahey didn't have transportation of his own, and was dependant on his father – a man Lydia never wanted to find herself with in a small, enclosed space; Danny Mahealani, Adam Greenburg, and a few other guys from the lacrosse team already had plans; and Rachael, Jennifer, and Laura – who were dating the captains of the basketball, soccer, and baseball teams – refused. Not directly, because that was not their way, but subtly, making hollow excuses and towering over her in their own mini-skirts and four inch heels. Slyly, surreptitiously, snakes disguised as flowers. This was a further removal of her from their "it-girl" pack.

Rachael, always needing to prove herself as the alpha female, made a backhanded comment along the lines of: couldn't Lydia's boyfriend drive her home...oh wait, that's right, she no longer had one – and ended this observation with a comment on Lydia's hair. "Are you trying to bring hats back, sweetie?" Rachael called everyone "sweetie," whether she was insulting you behind your back or to your face. "I don't think it's going to work. Even Lydia Martin can't pull off Cancer Patient chic."

Lydia kept her mouth shut, taking the higher road and walking away. The trio laughed her down the hall, Rachael's girlish giggles echoing loudest. She'd always hated that bitch.

Lydia had forgotten her wallet this morning in her mad-dash out the door, and therefore didn't have any money for cab. This left her with only one viable option: she was going to have to take the bus.

The final bell sounded, and though her bad day seemed to finally be coming to an end, Lydia was anxious about her ride home. She had not ridden the bus since seventh grade – a time of braces and puberty transitions and confusing hormones, which she did not care to remember. She had come a long way since that time, building herself into the Lydia Martin she had always wanted to be, and yet here she was again, reduced to public school transportation.

Lydia bid Allison a hearty goodbye on the steps leading to the front entrance. Allison placed a hand on her friend's shoulder. "Good luck," she wished solemnly. "Try not to contract cooties. Don't touch anything." Lydia did not reply with her typical sardonic wit, and which alerted Allison to just how seriously nervous Lydia was about taking the bus. She smiled sympathetically. "I'd ask my dad to drive you, but he wants to leave Beacon Hills as soon as possible."

As if to emphasize her point, Chris Argent honked the horn and motioned impatiently for Allison to hurry up. She quickly embraced her friend. "Text me."

"Have fun visiting your aunt!"

Allison waved as they pulled away. Lydia watched the Argents' car disappear into the departing traffic. From her left, a deep, distinct horn sounded. She glanced over her shoulder and saw a familiar blue Jeep speed by. The trunk space was loaded with camping gear and there were two kayaks strapped to the roof. The boys waved to her, and Stiles flashed a toothy grin. She waved back lightly, inwardly chiding herself for not asking the boys to drop her off on their way out of town. They certainly would have agreed, but she hadn't wanted to impinge on their boys' weekend – and she certainly didn't want to cast herself as needy, as the Damsel in Distress. Not that she thought they would see her that. Lately she had slipped up, allowing herself to become increasingly dependent on Stiles – on his presence, his willingness to help, his smile, and it made her uneasy. She needed to watch herself; she couldn't allow herself to be vulnerable around any man.

Lydia walked slowly towards the bus stop. There was a group already formed, waiting. Little clusters of freshmen girls wearing too much eyeshadow and freshman boys drenched in too much Axe. A brunette girl with her hair tugged into a long braid, her nose shoved so far into a book the pages seemed an extension of her face. A few sophomores with skateboards, their lids half-mast from the pot they had smoked in the bathroom between periods. An overweight boy from her gym class with a Pokemon backpack. A girl with a violin case shoved protectively under her arm, a permanent frown on her face and a nose ring in her left nostril. A junior Lydia knew by face but not name, his bangs cut long and greasy to cover his forehead which was an explosion of red, pimply ridges. And Vernon Boyd, ear-buds rammed so far into his ears, Lydia knew he must be permanently damaging his hearing. She could hear strains of his music – Kanye West, she thought – from twelve feet away.

As she approached, a few of the waiting students turned to look at her. Their faces wore open expressions of surprise. Could this be Lydia Martin, the queen of Beacon Hills High, walking towards them? Was Lydia Martin going to condescend herself enough to take the bus? _Their_ bus? A sophomore in thick glasses gaped at her open-mouthed; she heard his asthmatic wheeze, his breath hitching as he caught sight of her considerable bosom and shapely legs. He had never seen Lydia this close before. Maybe he would get the chance to sit behind her and inhale her pleasant, sweet girl-scent.

Lydia could see the excitement blooming on the boy's face. She could feel their stares, as the bus rounded the corner – huge and hideous, an egregious and outrageous bright yellow – growing larger and larger. The brakes squealed to a halt, and the doors swung open. Lydia further slowed her pace as she approached. Panic was ballooning in her chest, making it difficult for her lungs to intake oxygen. She paused in front of the doors and Jacques – the ancient driver – looked at her quizzically. She could smell the inside of the bus – reeking of stale perspiration and old vomit and desperation. Nope, she couldn't do it. Nope, nope, nope. Lydia hurried away.

Looked like she was walking home.

The doors closed, and the bus left. Lydia hefted her bag up on her shoulder. The tightness in her chest loosened and relaxed the farther she walked from the school. She felt she had made the right choice; she couldn't have gotten onto that bus, not with all those people looking at her, watching her every move. It was the one downside (okay, maybe not the _only_ one) of being popular – every decision, every movement, every word was on display, was scrutinized and publicized. All she needed was to mess up once to ruin a reputation it had taken her years to build.

She didn't want to think what would have happened if Rachel had learned she'd ridden the bus. She shuddered at the thought.

However, after the first mile and a half – with another one and a half to go – Lydia was beginning to regret her decision. She could feel blisters forming along her soles, and the straps of her heels dug into her ankles, rubbing the skin raw. She just wanted to be home already and for this no good, very bad day to be over.

As if in answer to her plea – but quite the opposite answer than what she was hoping for – a familiar silver Porsche 911 Carrera S slowed next to the sidewalk, crawling along at her snail pace. The front license plate read JCKSN37, and for the first time Lydia thought about how tacky and pretentious a customized plate was. His jersey wouldn't be number 37 forever.

The passenger-side window was rolled down. "Is Lydia Martin actually _walking_ somewhere?"

Lydia sniffed and kept her gaze straight ahead. She tried not to stumble, though her feet were killing her. She didn't take the bait, remaining silent. Jackson kept one hand on the wheel and leaned over Erica, in the passenger seat. "Come on, Lyd, don't be like that. Do you need a ride somewhere?"

"No, thank-you. I can make it on my own."

"Your house is another mile from here. Climb in. I'll drive you home."

 _Get in the car!_ Her calves and ankles begged her, but her pride was loud and stubborn. She would not deign herself to accept charity from her ex-boyfriend. Her _cheating_ ex-boyfriend. She would not be caught dead in a car with him and the girl he had been banging behind her back. She may be having a bad day, but she retained her dignity. "No. Thank you."

"Lydia, stop being stubborn. Get in the car."

And give him Monday morning bragging rights? She could practically hear him boasting to his jock buddies: "It was so pathetic. She practically threw herself at my vehicle. She's desperate and clingy. She can't get it through her head we broke up. She _so_ wants me."

"No."

"Fine. Be that way, but you'll be sorry."

"I'm impressed someone with such short legs can walk this far," Erica commented snidely to Jackson. This comment finally sent Lydia over the edge. She turned towards the Porsche, flushed and angry, her middle finger itching. She glimpsed Erica's long, beautiful legs stretched out beneath a too-short mini skirt. Erica, normally standing 5 feet 8 inches, towered over Lydia by five and a half inches – without heels on. She was almost as tall as Cindy Crawford, and Lydia hated her for it.

She had a sassy retort ready on the tip of her tongue, but Jackson chose that moment to gun the engine. The Porsche shrieked back onto the road and disappeared down the street, leaving behind the scent of burnt rubber and cheap perfume. Erica screeched a laugh and waved a red-clawed hand out the window. Lydia rolled her eyes. Jackson thought he was so cool because he drove a Porsche. It wasn't like he drove a Ferrari or a Lamborghini or a Bugatti Veyron. Pathetic. Only an insecure man would try to build up his self-image based on what car he drove. Clearly Jackson was lacking. In the downstairs department, most people would have assumed, but Lydia had known that specific part of him quite well – and while she hated to admit anything generous in Jackson's favor, he was decidedly _not_ disappointing where anatomy was concerned. It was instead his brain, she decided, that was lacking.

Lydia finally arrived home close to supper-time. Her traitorous Prius was the only vehicle in the driveway.

Lydia winced as she removed her shoes in the entryway. The skin at her ankles was completely raw, forming two thin lines of exposed tissue. The blisters on her feet had broken open and bled. There was no way she'd be able to clean the little splashes of blood out of the fabric.

Lydia, while insecure about her legs, took pride in her dainty, little feet. She never missed the chance for a good pedicure, keeping her toenails prettily polished and buffed. She choked on a sob as she saw what a bloody mess her feet were. They were sure to hurt for days. She just wanted to lay on the couch with a box of donuts and a forbidden bottle of wine, watching rom-coms on the Women's Network, eating away her rotten day and pretending seeing Jackson with his new girlfriend hadn't bothered her.

"Prada?" she called, walking tenderly through the house on the balls of her feet. "Prada?" Usually the dog greeted her at the door. She hadn't thought that dogs held grudges: wasn't that against everything in their nature? Weren't they supposed to love you unconditionally? Lydia wasn't mad anymore, she just wanted to cuddle with a creature that loved her and rest her cheek in the soft fur. "Prada?"

Lydia went into the kitchen. The patio door was ajar. Alarm bells started going off in her head. She stopped walking, straining her ears for any unusual noises in the house. If she was smart, she'd back out the door right now, and call the police. But she didn't. She did what all characters on television do – while the viewing audience burdened with common sense groaned at her – and checked the house. It was empty. There was no one there. There was no sign of Prada.

Her mother must have left the door open this morning, and the dog had gotten out. Prada was trained to be off-leash, daintily doing her business in the backyard and then immediately retreating back into the house, so she shouldn't be far. But when Lydia stepped outside, the stone walkway cool and rough against her bare feet, she couldn't see Prada. Maybe she had wandered further away than usual. Maybe she was hiding, or had snagged her collar on a branch or fallen in a burrow and was stuck.

Lydia began hunting for her dog, promising kisses and treats, and sweetly professing her love and apologies. The yard was quiet, almost unnaturally so, without birdsong or the chatter of squirrels to disturb it. She heard her mother's vehicle pull into the driveway; if Prada was hear, she would have heard it too. Mad as she might be at Lydia, surely Prada would want to greet Natalie.

There was an interlude of several minutes, where Lydia heard her mother moving around upstairs. She continued her search outside, but there was no sign of her beloved canine. A hard knot of apprehension was forming in her belly, and she thought miserably of how she had yelled at the dog this morning. "Honey, are you home?" Natalie stuck her head out the open patio door and spotted her daughter crouched among the bushes. "What are you doing?"

"I can't find Prada. The backdoor was open when I got home."

"Hm, it must not have been fully closed before I left this morning. I wouldn't worry, sweetheart. She's disappeared before, but she always find her way home. She's a Martin female after all – she prefers comfort." Lydia wasn't so sure, but she followed Natalie back into the house. She wanted to tell her mother about the rotten day she had had – how it had progressively spiralled and worsened, culminating her in a confrontation with her ex and the ruination of her shoes. She needed commiseration and love, to fall into her mother's warm embrace. She wanted Natalie to stroke her hair and tell her everything was going to be alright.

"You changed," Lydia noted. Earlier her mother had been wearing her typical teacher's uniform – a nice blouse, black dress pants, matching blazer, and clunky necklace. Now she was wearing a sleeveless deep-V necked cocktail dress that was gathered at the waist, revealing her shape and showing far too much cleavage for a middle-aged woman. Natalie was also wearing tasteful heels and a sheer black shawl, and carrying a black clutch. The dress was a deep, fiery red. The color of passion and sin, and things Lydia did not want to associate with her mother.

"I have a date tonight."

"Another one?"

"Honey, it is Friday night? Don't you have plans? What about Allison?"

"No, I don't. No one's around." Her friends all had plans. Plans that didn't include her.

"What about Sheriff Stilinski's son? He seems like a nice boy. Better than those airhead jocks you normally date. Why don't you ask him out?"

"No!"

"Why not?"

"Because." She was not going to attempt to have this conversation with her mother, especially not now. Her mother certainly dated her fair share of losers. But still, it was almost painfully pitiful that Natalie Martin had a date tonight and her teenage daughter did not.

Natalie double-checked she had her keys and touched up her lipstick in the entry way mirror. "There's a frozen pizza in the fridge and I made truffle last night. Do _not_ touch my wine rack." From the street, a horn honked obnoxiously. Natalie glanced out the window. "That's Phil now. Have a good night, hon. Lock the door behind me." Natalie planted a quick peck on her daughter's cheek. "Don't wait up!"

 _Phil._ Lydia seethed at the name. He didn't even have the decency to come to the door and knock? Honking at their house like her mother was some kind of trashy call-girl? Reason number 86 why Lydia despised Phil Hanson.

Phil was a real estate lawyer her mother had met at a singles' mixer a couple months ago. He worked for a small firm downtown, but he acted like he was a big-shot criminal lawyer from New York. He was forty-eight, childless, and infinitely proud that he still had a full head of his own hair. He was rich and arrogant, owned three different cars and two vacation homes, wore too much cologne, and was a complete moron. He treated Lydia like she was seven, though she was sure she had more intelligence and class in her little finger than he did in his entire body – Hugo Boss suit and all.

He and Natalie had gone on a few dates. Lydia didn't begrudge her mother dating – she did not have issues with men replacing her father; she wanted her mother to be happy – but she found middle-age romance slightly alarming, the idea of a man "deflowering" her mother revolting. She had no great loyalty to her father, but she couldn't understand why her mother couldn't date guys who were competent, caring, selfless, and smart. Men who were worthy of her and not complete idiots. Men she didn't need to dumb herself down around because most of their IQ was centered in their pants.

And Natalie had the audacity to critique _her_ love life?

Lydia preheated the oven and shoved the frozen pepperoni pizza inside, sans baking sheet. She set the timer for twenty minutes, and took the opportunity to try calling Allison. Between the disaster with Jackson and the missing Prada, Lydia really needed to talk to her best friend. The line rang and rang and rang. Finally Allison's voice-mail picked up. Lydia felt like crying, but she certainly didn't want to do so over a voice message. "Hey Ally," she tried to keep her tone casual, light, nonchalant. "I hope your visit with your aunt is going well. Could you please call me when you get this?"

Lydia sat on the couch, nibbling distractedly on her cardboard-tasting pizza and watching _The Notebook._ It was her favourite movie, but try as she might, she could not get into the right mood to watch. She was anxious and preoccupied. Ryan Gosling was failing her.

The sun was setting steadily in the west. Lydia abandoned Noah and Allie to their passionate love story, and decided to try searching for Prada again. Surely with the darkness, Prada would decide it was time to come home and go to bed. Prada would never foresake her comfy spot on Lydia's bed in favor of sleeping outside. (The thought made Lydia think of Stiles, bringing a small smile to her face.) But what if she was hurt? There must be a serious reason for Prada to be gone so long.

Lydia tried putting on a pair of sensible sneakers, but they hurt too much, so she opted instead for a pair of flip-flops. She grabbed a flashlight, wrapped herself in a sweater, and stepped outside. The night was rapidly cooling, chilling her despite her sweater and covering her skin in gooseflesh. She expanded her search: re-examining the backyard for clues, then moving on to the front yard and finally out to the street. She searched the entire block, yelling Prada's name. A few neighbors heard her calling, but none had seen hide-nor-hair of the little Pomeranian.

Lydia arrived home weary and exhausted; her feet had long passed sore and were now agonizing. If she didn't rest them now, she risked causing extensive damage or hindering her ability to walk. She would need to wait and search again for Prada in the morning. Lydia trudged slowly up to bed, each step was like needles in her soles. Now she understood how the Little Mermaid must have felt in Hans Christian Anderson's original tale.

Once upstairs, she enacted some semblance of her usual nighttime routine, washing her face, halfheartedly brushing her teeth. She removed her daytime clothes, but got no further than crawling into bed in just her underwear.

Her bed felt lonely and empty without the weight of Prada sleeping beside her – a warm, living teddy bear. Her most faithful bed fellow, long before she had discovered the wonder of boys, and loyal long after those same boys broke her heart and left her bed cold. Lydia had left the patio door slightly ajar, hoping vainly that Prada would find her way inside and surprise Lydia in the night.

Lydia tried Allison's phone again, with the same result. She left another voice-mail, this time admitting that Prada was missing, and could Allison _please_ call her the first chance she got. Next she tried her mother's cell-phone – only to hear it ringing from down the hall. Figures. Her mother was in such a hurry to go on her hot date, she had forgotten her phone. Remembered her keys but had forgotten the phone – typical. What if there had been a real emergency or a fire? Natalie would forget her head if it wasn't attached.

With sinking despair, Lydia felt the vastness of her loneliness closing in and suffocating her. She realized that while she was popular, she had very few friends at her disposable. There was only one other person she felt she could call to talk to, who was certain to listen to her problems and woes without interruption or fear of judgement. She dialled Stiles' number. The falsely polite recorded voice greeted her almost immediately: "The customer you have dialled..." _Great._ Lydia hung up. The boys must not have service out in the wilderness. She hadn't thought there were any places left in America where you couldn't get service.

Alone. She felt horribly alone. Her friends had ditched her, her mother had ditched her, her dog had ditched her. Lydia curled onto her side. She felt all too keenly Prada's absence near her feet, so she pulled them close to her, making a cocoon of her own body heat. She wasn't a bad dog; she was only doing what nature required of her. Lydia shouldn't have yelled at her this morning.

"I don't have anyone," Lydia spoke into the silence. Her gaze wandered to the vanity table, where Amelie perched, smiling kindly. Her glass eyes twinkled sympathetically. _You still have me,_ she seemed to say. Lydia climbed out of bed and grabbed the doll. She tucked Amelie into the sheets beside her, petting the soft ringlets. Lydia desperately needed someone to talk to, and though only children and crazy people spoke to inanimate objects, the weight of her day was crushing down on her and Lydia felt she needed to confide in someone, anyone, any _thing_. The big, fat, sloppy tears she had been holding in all afternoon rolled down her cheeks and Lydia poured out her heart to the doll – about her bad day and her uncooperative hair, her stupid failed test and stupid people who wouldn't even drive you home; about boys who broke your heart and boys who didn't answer their phone because they were camping, friends who told you to text them but weren't there when you needed them and mothers who only seemed to be around to annoy you but disappeared when you actually wanted them around.

"You're my only friend," Lydia told Amelie, hugging the doll close to her chest. She yawned. Her tears were spent, and she was ready to fall into an exhausted slumber. Her eyes struggled to stay open. "Promise you'll never leave me."

Lydia turned off the lamp, and cuddled Amelie, pressing her cheek against the cool, reassuring porcelain. In the pale light of the moon peeking through the curtains, the doll's eyes glistened. Her cherry smile seemed to increase the smallest fraction of an inch, but Lydia was already asleep and did not see it.

* * *

 **Holy word count, Batman! I'm sorry this update was so long in coming; I hope the length helps make up for the delay. I'm still working on "Save (a Wish) for Me," but I wanted to post this first.**


End file.
